


The Secret Ingredient is Crime

by mini_puffs



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Minecraft, Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Potato Farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mini_puffs/pseuds/mini_puffs
Summary: “I don’t know if farming that long is something to be proud of.”“They said the same thing about destroying orphans and bullying people,” Techno retorts. He gestures to the front door where he had not-so-rudely kicked them out and tosses his hair back, making sure not to flinch when his braid slaps him back in the face. Wilbur spares him his dignity and stifles a laugh. “But here I am.”The potato war ends, a famine begins, and it just so happens that Techno’s got a fuck ton of potatoes that’s enough to feed the whole country except for one minor detail—nobody wants to eat them.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Everyone, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 487





	The Secret Ingredient is Crime

**Author's Note:**

> based off that one reddit post:  
> [TIL In 1774, Frederick the Great ordered Prussians to grow potatoes as protection against famine, but the populace were disgusted by them and refused. The king then planted "royal potato field" but allowed peasants to steal from it, which re-marketed the potato into a major food crop.](https://niemann.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/10/11/the-legend-of-the-potato-king/)  
>   
> \- Im gonna be real with you this was supposed to be dream smp/a pure crackfic originally but i didnt wanna scrap these scenes so THIS IS BORN  
> \- tw: minor death scene

Techno is twenty and has mud and blood staining the front of his clothes, a blank stare, messy hair, and like all recent college dropouts/PVP legends, a deteriorating sleep schedule and a thirst for vengeance and blood.

Which—when you’re in the middle of a small town and actually haven’t talked to anybody yet—isn’t the best amalgamation of traits to have.

He stands in front of a bulletin board, trying his best to make out the absolute chicken-scratch notes. Either everybody in this town has terrible handwriting or that’s his eyesight speaking. Whatever the case, his gaze locks onto the bright red ink that spells out “#1” and reads.

Potatoes. Fucking potatoes. 

“You’re aiming for leaderboards too?” A voice asks, nearly making him jump ten feet in the air. 

“Uhhh.” Techno simply shrugs. The truth is he’d started farming purely for a set of armor that he’d long surpassed the required materials for. He came to town out of curiosity. Nothing more. 

Nothing more.

Techno eyes the potato quantity Mr. #1 in Potatoes has. He’s not too far off— “Yeah,” he decides after a minute with the energy of a man who hasn’t slept in three weeks. “Sure.”

And if he had to pinpoint, fucking pinpoint the moment where everything started to go downhill from there, if he ever created a time machine or found a way to revert his mistakes, he’d go back and _annihilate_ his past self because like a _fool,_ an absolute _clueless fool,_ he pocketed the poster and made a mental note of the poor guy’s address, already planning his next move.

* * *

  
  


Right now, Techno lives in a dirt shack. It’s an upgrade from living off the streets and crashing in whatever cheap inn he can find but it’s not as nice as his home in the past, a big house with slanted roofs and too thin walls to hear whatever gossip’s in the neighborhood. His beloved dirt shack is exactly a five-minute walk away from his fields and a twenty-minute walk away from the rest of civilization. He doesn’t actually live in one of course, but it’s funny to see the split second of pure confusion on people’s faces when he tells them that. And in all honesty, they probably believe it when they first take a look at him; he always has mud tracks on his pants and a loose linen shirt that makes him feel like a pirate but when it’s a hundred degrees in the afternoon, he has no choice but to tear it off and wring out the sweat. His boots aren’t any better and he can feel the soles peeling off when he slips them off once he enters his home. The sticky note reminding him to buy a new pair yells at him in bright yellow, but it’s been there for so long that it’s just another decoration at this point.

The three pairs of shoes by the door are new, however. Techno stops and faint bickering echoes from down the hall. 

Oh great. He’s being robbed. 

Then again, burglars wouldn’t bother to take their shoes off before entering. He doesn’t mind if they steal everything he owns because at the very least, they didn’t muck up his floors. The cottage was on sale when he bought it and he always needed to refurbish a lot of it. With the sunlight, red tints the windows, giving him the dramatic effect needed to waltz into the kitchen without a weapon, complete disregard for his own well-being. 

“Hello,” Techno sing-songs. Off-key, who cares. “Hippity hoppity, get off my property.”

The three potential robbers screech, one of them hitting the table with a loud thud.

“Holy _shit!”_

“Finally!”

“Hey, Techno!”

Techno blinks, mind trying to register the three in front of him. Maybe his doctor was right—too many hours in the sun isn’t healthy at all for one’s vision. He rubs his eyes before looking again.

“What,” he says. He wishes he was being robbed now. That way, he’d be able to kick them out and feel no remorse. “What are you guys doing in my house?”

Tommy scoffs and stamps his foot on the hardwood floor. There’s a leaf in his hair. Huh, it’s not from any of his front plants, that’s for sure. “I tried to tell them not to go here in the first place.” He jabs a thumb at the other two. “‘You don’t visit, Technoblade—Technoblade visits you.’ But they went anyway.”

“Oh, shut up, Tommy, you wanted to come too,” Wilbur scoffs, ruffling his hair. 

Tommy balks. “Well—“

“We had to drop off a delivery at the bakery,” Phil explains to him as the two go for each other’s throats. A basket of fresh bread sits on his countertop, a bright red ribbon tied around it. _Like fire trucks,_ his tired mind supplies. What the heck. He needs sleep. “People were trying to break in,” Phil picks off a glass shard from the basket and chucks it into a trash can, “and we took some bread while they did.”

Chaos. “Nice.”

Phil laughs. “Thought you could use the extra food and Nikki said the bow matches your hair.”

As if on cue, Techno’s stomach growls. Thank you, metabolism. “Thanks.” Reaching for the basket, he takes a bite out of a loaf and lets warmth fill his senses, almost forgetting where he is. Techno swallows and replays the conversation in his head. “My hair?” He asks, brushing a hand through it. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says from the side of the room. His kitchen seems much smaller with all of them in it. “Are you going to cut it soon?”

He hasn’t cut it since the war and he doesn’t plan to. It reaches the back of his ankles now, the pink more of a dull peach and there are millions of tangles that he can’t be bothered to brush out. “Probably.” Techno ties his hair up with the ribbon and takes it off after frowning at his reflection in the glass. Nope, maybe not. “I kinda like it at this length though.” There’s something oddly powerful when walking with one’s hair trailing behind them. 

“Your mum sent you a letter too,” Wilbur adds. “So did your sisters—I think your whole family did.”

His sisters had long hair. Most of their hairstyles consisted of ponytails, messy buns, and—he feels like he’s forgetting something—braids. A lightbulb goes off in his head. The memory feels faint but Techno can recall the basics of styling them and races towards the mirror above his sink, biting the ribbon as his hands work their way through the strands. 

“They said thanks and you’re free to come back whenever you—Techno. Brush it first, you idiot.” Somehow he’d forgotten they were there. Prying his hands off his hair, Wilbur leads him to the table with everyone and Techno stares as the usual revolution outfit is no more.

“You changed your clothes,” Techno remarks. The brown coat and smudges on his shirt look like he’s walked straight into some post-apocalyptic movie. He can work with that.

“Yup, finally out of that stupid sweaty suit.” He checks if Tommy’s listening and after seeing the two are preoccupied with Floof, turns back and says the rest in a low whisper. “I’m going to be honest--I never cleaned that thing.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Oh, yeah?” Wilbur chuckles. “When’s the last time you,” he sniffs the air and gags, “dear god, when’s the last time you showered?”

“Uh--” It can’t be that bad--damn. Who knew farming potatoes all day could be that bad. He turns around and takes a bite of bread to forget his worries. “Anyway, do you guys want any potatoes?” He coughs, gesturing to the fields outside and the sacks of them surrounding his kitchen. His basement’s full, he can’t put them in the stables or his animals will eat them all, and his entire diet consists of potatoes. “Take them,” Techno begs. “Here.”

“I thought you already won the war,” Phil says, taking three. Thank the Lord; he’s not even Christian. That’s 192 less out of the millions he still has to get rid of. “You can take a break now, right?”

Techno sighs as deeply as he can. “Yeah, but—“

“Wait, then how come you’re still doing it? Farming potatoes all day—“

“It’s not just potatoes,” Techno interrupts. Is this what everybody thinks of him now? God, he’s got a lot of restoring to do to his reputation. Like he had one in the first place. “There’s other crops.”

“Like what?” 

“Uh, wheat. Pumpkins cause of Halloween. My carrot farm is in that direction,” he points out the window and steps out of the way to let them see, “and nothing else.”

“Why’d you say it like that?” Tommy asks, holding Floof in his arms.

“Cause there’s nothing else.”

The look on his face is perhaps the most done look Techno’s ever seen on a sixteen-year-old. He tries hard not to laugh.

The feeling quickly gets replaced when Tommy scrunches up his nose in disgust. “Wilbur’s right, you smell terrible,” he says and sets Floof down. “Technosmell.” 

He and the other two burst into laughter. Normally, Techno would feel terrible in these situations and have an existential crisis for the rest of his life but all he feels is fond annoyance. Bruuuuuuuuuuuuhh. “Alright, that concludes the tour, get out of my house.” He claps his hands, grabbing them by the backs of their shirts and ignoring their protests. He shoves the front door open, the cool air blowing inside. “I’m barricading this place. Putting a barricade up. You’re hereby banned from my property.”

“Techno—“

“Wait--”

“Oh, come on! It hasn’t even been ten minutes! So much happened while you were here—“

“I know,” he says. Something about elections and rulers and whatnot that he tuned out the moment he heard of it. Authority is overrated--anarchy is the way to go. The government here is already messed up and he’s not dealing with that until he’s finished reforming this entire town. “Thank you for visiting, please never come back again.”

He closes the door with a click and sighs, curling into a ball on the floor. There’s so much he needs to get done today and he never expected them to come. Right place, wrong timing. Techno doubts they’ll leave that easy though, and will probably try to break back inside within a minute or two. 

In the meantime, he’ll try to clean up. Even though he’s tried to get them to leave, the house doesn’t feel as empty anymore. 

* * *

Six months into potato farming and the formal declaration of war, Techno’s standing by a sink stained red and looks into the mirror with hair a shade brighter but also much, much shorter. Locks of light pink hair fall into the box beside him and he grips the sides of the sink until his knuckles turn white, searching the stranger’s face in the mirror for answers.

He gets none.

Short hair does look nice on him, he’ll give himself that. Once upon a time rulers didn’t cut their hair unless they declared war and shipped it off to their enemies. It’s an old tale, one that his middle school self went crazy over and now here he is, taping the box shut and slapping a stamp on it. 

Oh, who is he kidding. He plans on delivering it to Squid himself.

* * *

  
  


Techno finishes showering fast and spends at least an hour trying to braid his mess of hair while everybody relaxes in his kitchen, chatting and acting as if they didn’t break down his front door to get back inside. The cracked mirror above his sink doesn’t help him in the slightest and the water turns brown when he runs his hands through it. 

What a country.

That’s how he spends the entirety of the evening having a mental breakdown over random things in his godforsaken kitchen while they try to catch up with recent events. Phil tells him how normal life is going outside of his farms, filling in when Wilbur and Tommy screech about the events of an election drawing near, previous wars in the neighboring country, and stupid shit that they all laugh at hard enough to be heard from town. And he’s gotta say--he sure is glad he steered clear of that (for now, at least). He’s got enough on his plate with the current economic crisis (that he may or may not have caused) and farms. His minions never rest. Nor do the townspeople.

“They like come in herds,” he says, turning the stove on. What do you know--it works. “Swarms. There’s always at least ten of them and they don’t even do anything! They just watch me. How am I supposed to get anything done with that? I can’t tell them to leave because then they get sad! Sad! Like ‘Technoblade, I’m so sorry, I’ll go if that’s what you want’ and now all of a sudden _I’m_ the bad guy! Hello?!” He tosses a potato over to them and a peeler. “I go to town too, and everybody’s _starving._ But when I offer them a potato, they don’t even want it! I tell them I’ve got a farm and they’re free to take as many as they like if they stop by, and _nobody_ ever comes! We live in a society--” 

It’s a quarter past midnight when he gets everything fixed and cooks a late midnight snack with potatoes. “Guess what I made,” Techno states rather than questions. They look up as he slides them three bowls of piping hot potato soup, the smell alone making his mouth water. “It’s soup!”

“You’re not trying to poison us, are you?” Tommy takes a bowl and eyes him warily. “Huh, Technoblade?”

“No, no, of course not,” he tells him dryly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tommy falls asleep within twelve minutes later. Whether it was because his soup was actually poisoned or not, he’ll never know. Phil shakes him awake and they both head off while Wilbur stays and Techno debates on whether or not to force him out but unlike the other two, he doesn’t have any work and has a sleeping schedule almost on par with his. They sit in silence while he clears out the dishes and Wilbur hums song melodies under his breath that sound familiar but Techno can’t quite place.

“Techno,” Wilbur says, stopping mid-song. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but isn’t this just glorified mashed potatoes?” He nods to his bowl of soup.

Techno blanks. “No, no, it’s potato soup,” he quickly corrects. Oh, these people. “I added chicken stock and milk from the farms--there’s vegetables I grew--I put flour to thicken it--”

Running a hand through his hair, Wilbur sighs and tilts his head. “That’s literally glorified mashed potatoes.”

“No, I just said, it’s potato soup. You wouldn’t put those ingredients in regular mashed potatoes.”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s fucking glorified mashed potatoes.”

“It’s potato _soup.”_

“Glorified mashed potatoes.”

“No, it’s potato soup, _William.”_ He pauses. “Will I am.”

“We get it, you’re American.” Wilbur scoffs. “It’s _William.”_

“Will I am. We get it, you’re British, I’ll remember not to add any spices next time,” he deadpans. “Imagine stealing all the spices in the world only to never use any.” He shakes his head and sighs as deeply as he can. “Shame.”

“Oh, shut up.” Wilbur kicks him from under the table and narrows his eyes. “Try to pronounce it one more time. _William.”_

Techno narrows his in return. _“Potato soup.”_

“Now, listen here—“

“I’m sorry, did you spend a year of your life farming potatoes 24/7?” No answer comes and Techno nods. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, _Will I am._ I know my potato recipes.” 

Wilbur glares at him and leans back on his chair, using his arms to prop himself up. “This is why nobody wants to eat them,” he says, pushing the bowl away. “It all tastes the same. Potatoes everywhere. Also, I don’t know if farming that long is something to be proud of,” he adds a moment later.

“They said the same thing about destroying orphans and bullying people,” Techno retorts. He gestures to the front door where he had not-so-rudely kicked them out and tosses his hair back, making sure not to flinch when his braid slaps him back in the face. Wilbur spares him his dignity and stifles a laugh. “But here I am.”

* * *

  
  


Techno is eight months into farming when he walks into town with probably ten years worth of potatoes and sunburns and calloused hands that he could do without. People stare at him and he keeps his head down, walking up to the small podium and the script of his speech fading in his mind.

He doesn’t remember what he says. The thing goes by in a blur and he stutters a few times but he gets his point across. Potatoes are healthy, he’s got many of them, he wants to give them out and—

No. They look him dead in the eyes and refuse.

Techno definitely doesn’t cry afterwards. He definitely doesn’t avoid anybody in town like the plague. Definitely doesn’t disguise himself and definitely doesn’t leave bits and pieces of food when he can. Definitely doesn’t section off a small piece of land that he doesn’t need just so the people can have somewhere to eat, even when he’s fighting off an anthropomorphic squid in agricultural warfare. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Wilbur leaves an hour later and Techno wakes up to the sound of his chickens screaming their heads off at the first sight of sunlight and horse #73 trying to break the front door of the stables down. They’re not morning people as well, he supposes, yawning and fixing it back up. His minions give him a small wave as he rides past them and to the border where his farms meet the edge of town. The peeling sign overhead reads, “Community Garden” but with months worth of neglect and wear it’s giving off a rotten smell and Techno looks around before chopping it clean off with his sword. He’ll replace it later, if he remembers.

Tying Andrew by the fence post, he puts his hood up and hops over the fence. The last thing he needs is a crowd and after the chaotic mess he left the town in the last time he visited, things won’t go too well if he does. 

To be honest, he’s not even supposed to be doing these weekly check-ins. He left the outer parts of the farms to the town and the town alone. It’s technically their responsibility now. But if there’s one thing Techno’s learned from group projects, it’s that nobody really does the work aside from him.

He counts the rows first, as usual. Sixty four by sixty four without a crop out of place. Perfection, but concerning. Almost as if nobody’s been here aside from him and the thought shivers down his spine because he did not, did _not,_ work his ass off for his crops to be treated like nothing while people starve and the government has the audacity to go on like nothing’s happening.

There are weeds growing though, so at least there’s some form of life and he hasn’t stumbled upon his very own crop graveyard. He tears them out, his hands moving on auto-pilot and the hoe slicing off the roots before moving onto the next patch. It’s easy, too easy, at how he falls back into the same routine. The afternoon beats on his back and Techno dumps the sack of now dead weeds into a crate before moving onto the next row.

It’s four pm when he finishes, totaling the amount he’s farmed and dividing it into seconds to get it. Techno hauls his pickings onto Andrew’s back who doesn’t budge at the weight. Town is strangely empty when they arrive and he waits by the fountain where the market should be set up (not that he cares). He needs somewhere to throw/give out the food he doesn’t need. 

Five minutes pass and no one arrives. Taking a bite out of a raw potato, Techno feeds the rest to Andrew and taps his foot, turning around every few seconds. Town was fine a week ago. Did something happen? War? Plague? Famine? It all finally got to them? A gust of wind slaps his hair in his face, the ribbon they gave him yesterday covering his eyes with a slight scent of bread despite being in the sun all day. Bakery, Phil mentioned a bakery here, and with the prices of grain going up, that can’t be too good.

“What do you think?” He asks Andrew. His horse stares at him and he sighs, hauling himself onto his back. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. Let’s go,” he commands. “Let’s check it out.”

The answer to everyone’s disappearance comes in the form of two crowds when he turns the corner. Nobody pays him any attention and he squints to see what the commotion is about, only for his blood to turn cold.

“Andrew, turn around,” he whispers frantically. Andrew does not move and looks at him, the crowd, then him again, tilting his head. “We gotta go now, before they see us—“

“Techno!” TapL yells. Oh, God, they’ve seen him. He’s in for it now— “Techno!”

Andrew books it at the call of his name and Techno grips onto the reins with all his strength as the crowd immediately screams (or he screams, maybe both, the point is that somebody screamed—). He hasn’t attended a single lesson with any of his senseis in almost weeks and is both grateful and surprised there isn’t an arrow lodged in his back yet. 

“Techno!”

“Sensei!” He yells back. “I’m sorry!”

There’s no way he’s staying in town any longer. He makes it out the village walls and does a poor attempt at a whistle, a couple of his goons and some of the town guards boarding up the exit for him to run off.

“If they ask,” Techno tells one, one of the newer recruits judging from the wide eyes and stiff stance, “I was never there.” Goon Seven nods and out of the corner of his eye, Techno’s potato farm is nothing but a speck on the horizon. “Actually,” he says, making them stop in their tracks. “Actually, wait, can you guys guard the farm?”

There’s something he needs to test real quick.  
  


* * *

He doesn’t do much fighting between farming unless it’s to kill off mobs or people who came too close for coins. His minions can handle themselves and his goons usually do most of the work for him.

Most of the work.

Techno wipes the blade of his sword with his shirt, walking away from their body. His hands are slick with blood and mud, and he can barely make out the lights of his home in the distance. Damn, there goes his sleeping schedule. It’ll be dawn by the time he makes it there and back, and he dusts himself off before continuing.

“Wait.” Techno inwardly groans. He thought he finished them off. “Wait,” his ex-goon pleads, rustling the dirt around them. “I have a family,” they beg. “Please.” 

“I know,” Techno says. “I’ve sent them enough food and everything they need. They’ll be fine.”

His goon relaxes. “Thank you,” they choke out, coughing blood into the dirt. There’s supposed to be benefits to blood in the dirt, if Techno can recall where he read that. Something about better fertilizer. Maybe he should kill more traitors and dump their bodies here--yeah no, his crops might taste terrible. He’ll get the minions to haul away their corpse later. “But please, don’t leave. If you—you’re going to let me die, at least stay. Don’t let me die alone--”

Techno brings his hoe on their throat, cutting them off. “And, that’s enough out of you,” he says. “Sorry.”

One less mouth to feed.

* * *

  
  


His first teacher besides his parents and the failure that they call an education system is none other than books. One of the first things Techno tries setting up in his home is a bookshelf with books he hasn’t switched out since the day he got there. It sits in his kitchen, covered in notes and dust. He has one book in mind when he rushes home but he miscalculated how many of the books he knows and spends at least an hour rereading his old childhood bedtime stories and random recipes before finally, finally grabbing the one he needed.

He sits on the countertop, flipping through the pages while idly stirring a cup of tea. Rays of sunlight filter in through the cracks in the curtains and he holds the book up to it to read. There’s unintelligible scribbles in the margins and doodles that once made sense to him but now bear no memory. _Important,_ he thinks his past self wrote. Important for what? He underlines a paragraph and skips back the front, the letters on the cover fading. 

Techno’s three pages into notes when someone bangs on his front door, shouting. It’s hyperactive enough to be Tommy but it’s followed by a loud bang and a voice that makes all hair on the back of his neck go up.

“Geppy, wait, are you sure you have the right house--”

“Yes! There’s no one else here!”

“Okay, fine, sorry--Technoblade,” Bad calls, knocking on the door. Suddenly, Techno’s legs don’t work and he can’t hear. “Are you home?”

“No,” Techno says without hesitation. “I’m dead.”

Bad stops knocking and his confusion is audible. “Where are you then?” 

“The library.” He pauses. “Get off my property.”

“Technoblade, can you please let us in?”

“Bad, be quiet, he’s at the library.”

Techno bursts out laughing, clutching his sides as he swings open the door to greet the two, a blur of red and blue like two halves of a whole. They smell faintly of blood, Skeppy grinning from ear to ear with their swords by their sides and bandages wrapped around their arms. Techno doesn’t want to know where they came from. One traps children for a living and one hunts down the fastest man alive--dear god, he’s going to die, isn’t he? Someone snitched on him. He can take care of Skeppy but Bad’s the main concern because if the rumors are true and that thing holstered to his side is a gun, Techno’s screwed. 

“What abomination am I going to do today?” He asks, leaning against the doorframe. No suspicion here. 

Bad looks appalled. That was the wrong thing to say, alright, Techno’s majorly screwed now-- “Choose a box,” Skeppy says, shoving him out of the way and holding two brown boxes. “Pick one. Left or right?”

Techno blinks. “Your left or my left?”

“Yours. Just choose one.”

“Uhhhhhhhh--” They look exactly the same. Techno stares at them for a moment before looking back up. “You came all the way to my house for this?” He says. 

“Just pick one!”

“Geppy, stop yelling at him!” Bad elbows him. “You’re making it harder for him to decide!” 

“Well, he has to pick one--”

“Uhhhh, this one.” Techno taps the one on the right, praying for this trainwreck of a conversation to end soon. Whatever God out there listens because the two immediately shut up as Bad tucks the boxes back into his bag and shoots a smug look at Skeppy. 

“Ha,” he says. Skeppy rolls his eyes but the smile on his face is fond. A small part of Techno wants to vomit while the other sobs. “Thanks, Techno.”

Techno shrugs. He has plans to get back to. “What was that even for--”

“Nothing!” Skeppy sing-songs, whirling around. “Bye!”

“Wait.” They both stop and turn back. Techno rushes to his kitchen and drags out a few sacks of potatoes, handing it to them. “Take these,” he pleads. “Eat them. Give them to people or something. Throw them at children. I don’t care, just take them.”

“Uh--”

“We’re doing an event later,” Bad says thoughtfully, tapping a finger to his chin. “We’ll use them. Don’t worry.”

Now that’s ominous. Techno nods, wondering how many reports there’ll be tomorrow concerning missing kids. “Okay.” Wiping his hands off on his shirt, he stares at the ink stains and the notes he left back on the kitchen table, the book still cracked open. It’s not too late to carry out phase one of the plan-- “Is there any chance that you guys could host the event by town?”

“I guess.” Skeppy shrugs. “Why? Isn’t your farm there?” He says, tilting his head to the side. 

“Yes.” That’s the goddamn point. “My goons are by the front. You can’t miss them. They’re pretty terrible at their job though.” Techno chuckles. “So don’t worry if anybody gets too close.”

* * *

  
  


The evening after he’s won the war, he sits at the edge of a hill overlooking the farms. His minions still work and numbers fly in his head, calculating. 

He’s supposed to be happy, Techno concludes. Happy that after all these months and years, he can watch the sunset over the horizon of the hundreds of acres of fields that he once planted days without end and laugh, dance, or something, anything to fill the emptiness in his stomach that grows bigger and bigger with each waking second.

He wanted freedom, and that’s exactly what he got. There’s nothing more.

Nothing more.

* * *

  
  


“Technoblade!”

No.

“Technoblade!”

Double no.

“You gotta yell it louder, Tubbo, like _Technoblade!”_

What even--

“Technoblade!”

“Get out of my house,” Techno says, flicking the lights on as the two intruders screech. It’s barely six in the morning, far too early for whatever shit these two have planned. Tommy hits his table while Tubbo falls off it.

“He awakes!” They yell. “He’s awake!”

“The blade is alive!”

Yawning, Techno rubs his eyes and turns on the stove, flames licking his sleeve as he dumps potatoes into the water. The sun’s not even out yet nor have his chickens started screaming or one of his goons arriving to drop off mail. “I was having a good night’s sleep, some shut eye, and then all of sudden I hear screaming—” How they broke in again is beyond him. The front door is intact and the windows are solid, yeah, no, dust falls onto his hair and he sneezes, glancing up. The night sky greets him through the gaping hole in his ceiling. Now that’s just great. “I can charge you two with breaking and entering you know,” he threatens, pointing a frying pan at the two of them. Not as threatening as he intended, but it’s too early to be picky. 

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Tommy says with a smug grin, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was like that when we got there. Right, Tubbo?”

“Right,” Tubbo agrees. He gestures to the ceiling and the heaps of potatoes strewn around his kitchen. “We were trying to fix it with...your potatoes!”

“My potatoes,” Techno repeats bluntly.

They pale, probably to realize how much of a bad lie that is and he’s about to turn back around when they corner him by the stove like he’s some sort of caged animal. “Technoblade, Technoblade, listen--”

“Someone broke a hole in your roof--”

“--We tried to chase them down but they got away so we didn’t know how to fix it--”

“--I heard somewhere that if you mashed them enough, you could reuse them as plaster so we were just trying to--”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, Teenage-Techno jumping back into his brain for a moment along with memories of absolute cringe that Present-Techno kicks him back out. This is worse than the time he tried to lie his way out of his English final. “Mhm.” He makes his way to the table. “Why are you here?”

Tommy stops. “What? Is it too much for us to want to visit--”

“Yes.”

Tommy steps back and blinks, but then nods. “Oh wow, okay.”

“Hey, what’s this?” Tubbo asks, peering over his shoulder and grabbing a scrap of paper. Shit. It’s been weeks and Techno never remembered to clean it back up. “Is this a blueprint?” They wave it in front of his face. “Are you building something?”

“Shut up, nerd.” He snatches it back. “Nothing you should be concerned about.”

Unfortunately for him, Tommy’s right behind him and grabs it out of his hands to run by Tubbo’s side and read. “What are you making--” He mutters. “Oh! Is this your plans for a new secret base?” He slams it onto the tabletop and gestures wildly to it. “You’re making a tower? Walls?”

“Well--”

“We have cobble!” Tubbo offers. “We can help you!”

“You guys shouldn’t even be here,” Techno says, but begrudgingly lets them join him around his farms. His minions don’t pay them any attention as the two gawk at the miles upon miles of potato crops, bombarding him with questions until they reach the edge of town. He does his best to answer them, ignoring the ones that are clearly jabs. One of his goons raise a brow at the commotion they stir but Techno shrugs and instructs them to join in on the construction. They were right--they had way too much cobble on them and saved him at least a week’s worth of grinding materials. Enslaving children is now one of his favorite pastimes. Thank you, Hypixel.

“Do you think Wilbur will be pissed?” Tommy blurts out in the middle of building. He’s sitting on top of the structure so far and yells it down at them.

Techno holds back a groan. “Oh no,” he says. “I’m sure when he wakes up and finds you missing he’ll be absolutely thrilled. Even more when he learns you’re on the other side of the _country_ without any adult supervision. On _my_ farm.”

“Aren’t you an adult?”

Techno coughs. “An older adult,” he corrects.

“Don’t worry, I’m a lawyer.” Tubbo nods as if that explains everything, which Techno can’t really bring himself to argue with.

He sneaks a glance at his fields during their break. Sixty four by sixty four, not a crop out of place--no. There’s empty spots where there would be potatoes growing, the stalks ripped out and roots empty. Footprints lead up to the main entrance and they can’t be more than a day or two ago. He’s had intruders before but they were more precise with their work, never leaving a trace or two behind. Whoever stole didn’t have a clue on what they were doing and left in a rush.

“Hey,” Techno calls. Tommy and Tubbo snap their heads toward him in an instant he’s surprised their heads haven’t detached from their bodies yet. “Did any of you take some potatoes?”

“No,” is his curt answer.

Tommy almost looks offended. “Believe me,” he says, chugging a bottle of water. “We’d steal something that’s worth it. But if that makes you mad then yes.”

“Here.” Techno hands them a pile of discarded potatoes and doesn’t meet his gaze as the last thing he needs is those two griefing everything. “You can take them.”

Tubbo takes the pile while Techno flits his gaze from them, the farm, his goons, the almost fortification they’re setting up, and back at the farm. His plan is falling into place piece by piece and the extra exterior should make it even better. Months ago, leafy green stalks lined the fields without a single weed or bug present. The stench of fertilizer would make his head ache and he’d harvest everything each hour with the sun burning his back and humidity blurring his vision. Here, the weather’s cooler for one, and the mess of the fields mark it different from its former glory. Music and the chatter of town square comes from the town walls, something he’s never heard before in all his years of farming. 

Laughter. Techno turns to see the two laughing their heads off at something and turns back with a smile. He didn’t have this back then either, little to no room for any of his friends and family in his pristine fields to grow. He thought he cut them out ages ago. Looking back, they were always there, weeds and shrubs he could never quite stamp out but if anything, were a part of him just the same.

It’s not what he asked for, but he’s grateful in the end. Nothing more. 

Anyway--

“Would you guys be interested in a job?” Techno asks, snapping out his daze. Oh God, it’s just potatoes. He needs more sleep. “Replanting the potatoes?”

Tommy and Tubbo stop mid-conversation and stare at him. “That depends.” Tubbo shrugs. “Are you going to pay us?”

Bold of them to assume he has money in the first place. “Would you accept clout as payment?”

They both whoop. “Hell yeah, bitch!” 

* * *

  
  


> _All warfare is based on deception.  
> _

_\- Sun Tzu_

> _Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate._

_\- Sun Tzu, also_

> _Whatever you do, don’t reveal all your techniques in a fanfic tagged under Technoblade, you fool, you moron._

_\- Sun Tzu, probably_

* * *

  
  


Everything is set up and for the first time in years, Techno loses more potatoes than what he harvests a day. 

The whole field by town is empty and if it weren’t for everyone informing him that they replanted what was taken, he would’ve assumed they uprooted everything and done it instead. It’s nothing compared to what he’s done before, but it’s nice to have a breather. He takes a quick peek into town in the morning, streets filled with stalls selling an absurd amount of potatoes and people with smiles. Leaving his usual bag of potatoes by the entrance, Techno leads him and Andrew back to his farm.

The hoe feels heavy in his hands. At first, he wields it like a sword, muscle memory overtaking his hands after weeks worth of fighting. It doesn’t matter anyway as there’s nothing for him to harvest and Techno sets it back against the fence, somewhat embarrassed. He walks around the perimeter instead, following the roots and leaves of other plants that have made their home here.

“I have something for you,” one of the bushes says as he passes by. 

Techno doesn’t even look up. He can hear leaves rustling and someone else’s muffled laughter. “Is it at least clout?” He tries. “I’m kinda in need.”

Wheezing, Dream hops out and lands on his feet in front of him. The smile on his face is wide enough to reach the ends of his mask before he wills it into something more neutral. A shame. It’s harder to read the man’s emotions when half of his face is a mask with a smiley face. “No, sorry. Catch.” He tosses him a letter, leaning against the fence. Techno stuffs it into his pocket and joins him. “Long time no see,” Dream greets. “How’s the--”

“Potatoes?” He finishes for him. He kicks at a stray piece of dirt, watching it scatter along the grass. “Nobody’s died in a while, so I’d say it’s going pretty well.”

“Aw.” Dream’s silent, which is a first. He’s the one who does most of the talking for their conversations. Techno looks up and sees his arm shove something into the inside of his jacket, not meeting his eyes. “I mean, that’s good--”

“You know,” Techno cuts him off. Patches of mud cover his hands and he gestures to them. “If you wanted potatoes, all you had to do was ask.”

Dream laughs and tosses him the potato he stole, shaking his head. “Well you put guards up and a barrier.” He nods towards them. His mask bops up and down, the smiley face swaying from side to side. “Didn’t make it look like you’d be willing to give them out for free.”

“All part of my master plan.” Techno chuckles. “Besides,” he adds as an afterthought, “they taste much better this way.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- whats funny is that this was supposed to be just one scene from the stream where bad and eret throw potatoes at techno but then i didnt even write it in the end im ascending thanks for reading! :D


End file.
